Bless The Small Mercies

My very first royalty cheque arrived in the mail today. What a welcome surprise. Especially because today I started crying spontaneously at work because I felt so bad. I'm working from home tomorrow. And I think I might call the doctor and see if he has any suggestions as per why I'm feeling so rotten.

In An Attempt To Reach Out

I have emailed long lost friends, answered the phone every time it rings (three calls from my RRBF, three other calls (two wrong numbers and one firm doing market research). All in an attempt to avoid writing. How do you procrastinate?

I've been actively grading the songs in my iTunes Party Shuffle as well, pretending that's work. The last few to come up:

1. Mr. Brightside, The Killers (four stars)
2. Take It Or Leave It, The Strokes (three stars)
3. Hey Ladies, The Beastie Boys (two stars [I'm in a mood!])
4. The Future Hangs, Cuff the Duke (five stars)
5. Please Don't Make Me Cry, UB40 (four stars)
6. Countdown Our Days, Fembots (five stars)

I've watched a couple episodes of Coronation Street, and a half an hour of Veronica Guerin.

I've vacuumed some, washed the tub, dusted and put away my clothes.

I've danced around my office to The Strokes and The Pogues. I bought Joy Division's Love Will Tear Us Apart. Fond memories of bad high school dances.

I've written quite a few silly blog posts.

In fact, the only thing I haven't done is take a nap—but don't count that option out.

Today's Inspiration

Comes via a link from Bookninja:

In the end, it didn't quite put me off. Now I know where my novel is heading, I don't panic when a first draft is drivel (and it is always drivel), and most of all I understand that writing is mostly a question of hard work.

That's the part that I have trouble with, the hard work part, most of the time I want to write it and have it be done, sort of like it is with the blog.

(She says as she's been sitting at her computer for hours revising the story for her creative writing class, looking over two poems and changing one or two words and writing more of her abridged classics).

Confidence Builder II

In the attempt to procrastinate even more regarding my abridged versions, I've just sent off some poems to Contemporary Verse 2. Judging from the big, fat rejection I got from The Fiddlehead, I'm not hopeful, but am going through the motions if only to develop a thicker skin. I sent 4 poems off: "January (My Violent Heart)", "April", "Born in the Sign of July" and "October's Teenage Wasteland." I'll keep you posted if and when I hear anything.

Confidence Builder

I think I forgot to mention that I'm taking a creative writing class this fall. It's a 'graduate level' course that focuses on workshopping fiction with a goal that by the end you've got 50 pages or so that are in good shape to shop around. After reading the first stories by two of my classmates last week, I had a shiver of self-doubt that I'm ready for something so polished. However, I'm sticking with it, and just sent off my first story for discussion in our next class, which is November 7th (we're skipping Hallowe'en, for the parents in the group).

The story I sent off is one of a series I've been working on about the time I spent in Banff during university. Looking at it before sending it off left me on a crazy trail of procrastination, trying to find out about people I used to know (one ex-boyfriend who I treated terribly and regret to this day what I jerk I was), googling different places I remember, trying to recall things that happened 10 years ago now.

But most of all, trying to capture the irony of Banff itself, rich playground for wealthy folks, pitstop for kids running away, easy summer money, beautiful landscape, unreal life, all of those things that make for good fiction. If only I could figure out how to write it properly. Fingers crossed they don't hate it, and fingers crossed I actually make it through class without throwing up. Shyness really is a disease, isn't it?

Saturday Afternoon at the IFOA

We went to the last IFOA reading we had tickets for yesterday. There were four women reading: Lisa Moore (from her Giller-nominated Alligator), Allison Pick (from her new novel The Sweet Edge), Melissa Bank (The Wonder Spot) and chicklit belle of the ball, Lauren Weisberger (Everyone Worth Knowing).

Lisa Moore's book was by far the best of the bunch, from what I could gather from the readings. She had one line about how a windshield reached out and punched the character during an accident that stopped me in my boots. I've got the book at home and might move it to the top of the 'to read' pile, that is after I've got through the three book club books I'm behind on these days.

I admire Lauren Weisberger, and Melissa Bank's book read quite funny, and I'm glad to see 'chicklit' become kind of accepted at such a high-brow event as the IFOA. It's a nice change, and maybe a necessary one...

Testing, Testing

The Dr. Mr. Fancypants had me go for CT scans yesterday, of my head (sinuses) and chest (lungs), to see what the disease is doing. My appointment was for 5 PM. On a Friday. There's nothing more discouraging than having to be at the hospital when everyone else in the world is on their way home for the weekend. On top of that, I'm so tired these past few days that I'm having trouble paying attention to anything.

In fact, I'm so tired that I can barely take care of myself. Today I'm kind of grumpy that I'm a band widow, and I'm missing my RRBF, but it'll all pass once I get some sleep and rest for the majority of the weekend. My only plans are to watch bad TV (24 on DVD) and read. Oh, and to do my abridged versions. I'm so behind!

Isn't my life thrilling?

You know, the worst part of days like this, disease days, is honestly thinking that it might be easier just to let the Wegener's have its way with me. I know it's not a rational thought, probably a side effect of the maddening prednisone, but today I'm even too tired to think about fighting.

But that'll all change this afternoon. I've got one more IFOA reading to go to, and I'm hoping that it'll perk me right up.

Brick Books

Tonight I went to Brick Books' 30th anniversary party. They were celebrating the launch of four new books of poetry, and with one of the authors being a friend of a friend, I decided to go along with Kate. I have such a love-hate relationship with poetry: love the form, love the medium, love language; hate the form, hate the pretension, hate the language (kidding).

The first two poets were mediocre, and one was downright nuts, but that sort of made the evening fun. The last two poets, David Seymour (aforementioned friend of friend) and a truly fantastic poet named Karen Solie, made the whole evening worth while.

Well, then there was the fun "philosophic" walk home with Kate, the truly funny idea of starting the Anti-Poets Poetry Club, and seeing some people I hadn't seen in a long time. Oh, and then being too shy to say hello to my ex-poetry teacher. All in all, a pleasant continuation of my quest to lead a more cultured life.

Popwatch, Bitch!

Because there are few places on the web where the words "apocalyptic gloom" and Ashlee Simpson work better than on Popwatch. Oh this poor, poor man who is unable to realize that little in the world of pop music has to do with anything other than the world ending.

Because I wake up to it every damn morning as I listen to the asinine morning team berate someone for having leaking rectums or something equally disgusting, and then am forced to listen to the second worst song I've ever heard in my life: "Photograph" by Nickelback:

Look at this photograph
Every time I do it makes me laugh
How did our eyes get so red?
And what the hell is on Joey'’s head?

'How did our eyes get so red'? Seriously? Did he actually write that down and get all excited because he then took the whopping huge next step of then rhyming "red" with "head." The man's a bleeding genius of rectal leakage.

See, you can't listen to radio in a vacuum.

James Frey...

...was on Oprah yesterday to talk about his book in terms of her book club pick. The whole episode felt a bit Oprahfied, with the poor woman being saved from her addictions and seeing James Frey today with his happy family, but it also felt real. And it felt real because Frey himself seems very real, very honest and very explicit about his own story.

My favourite part of the whole hoopla surrounding the book? How many people this morning woke up thinking about that book, about that man, about his struggle and about his one simple piece of advice: hold on.

Maybe that applies to people with diseases like Wegener's Granulomatosis too. And not just people with addiction.

Bad Disease Day #1328979654

So I'm starting to feel the side effects with the prednisone, in particular, craving rich bad-for-you foods like cheese and ice cream. I'm waking up at all hours of the night, worrying about silly things, crying and feeling sorry for myself. This morning, I woke up at 4 AM and started putting our mail into different files. I was sort of looking for something that I couldn't find, but that's not really the point.

And then I had kind of a sh*t day at work, managed to feel even more sorry for myself, all the while wanting just to go home, crawl into bed, and ignore the rest of the day.

Now I'm sitting here about to get read to go to a Brick Books party at the Gladstone, happy to be getting out of the house, but miserable because in order to get out of the house, I actually have to leave.

Tuesday Night At The IFOA

Last night we saw Julian Barnes, David Baddiel and Michael Crummey. It was another good evening of readings. And funnily enough, Zadie Smith and Nick Laird sat one row down and across the aisle from us. I had to try hard not to watch them, and keep concentrating on the task at hand.

Now I'm totally exhausted and must sleep.

Happy Birthday To You!

We've got a niece! My RRBF's sister had her baby two days ago, and she's lovely. I went to see her this afternoon. So small...I've never seen a person whose only 1.5 days old before. She has amazing facial expressions: yawning, open eyes, scrunchy face, half-smile (probably gas?), and more. How amazing is that?

North Country

Oh, they had me, they really did—right up until the very end, when a giant, zit of a Hollywood moment ruined the film for me.

To cap off my incredibly culturific weekend, I went to see North Country with Glark and Wing Chun on Sunday afternoon. That makes it: two IFOA readings, one film crew, one rock and roll show, and a feature film—all in one teeny, tiny weekend. It's amazing what having 35 odd people you don't know in your house will make you do...

Annnywaaay, I hate to admit how hard the film grabbed me in the first two thirds. The story was good, the acting was solid, the relationships didn't ring false, the politics were honest, and they had me. Blubbering, sniffling, bawling and batting away the tears at one pivotal moment in particular.

And then it went all MOV on me. And the ending was spectacularly cheesy without having to have to be, and I was mad that I got sucked in at all, because being cheated at the end of a film is like being cheated by the first really hot boyfriend you have—it comes totally out of the blue emotionally, even though you were half-expecting it because he's so good looking you know it'll never last.

In the end, glass ball predictions mean that Charlize Theron will probably be nominated for an Oscar. As long as everyone stops talking about her appearance and let her talent stand for itself, but wait, what am I saying, that's a pipe dream that'll never come true.

Rock And Roll On A Saturday Night

So after Zesty and I left the IFOA, we headed over to Lee's Palace for my RRBF's show. Thankfully, Lee's was pretty full, and people were actually standing in the front section near the stage, looking expectantly up at where he and the rest of the band were setting up. It was a relief to see a good crowd, especially a crowd full of people I don't know and/or recognize.

While we were waiting for the band to start, I overheard the conversation of a couple girls standing sort of on top of us. They were talking about my RRBF's bandmate, how one of them tried to talk to him at Hillside and he was very shy, but polite, not necessarily encouraging any further conversation. Which, being a girl who has a fellow in a band, I can completely see and understand.

Then she said, "And I also met the one in the hat." My ears perked up, "For the FemBots / Weakerthans tour, I was standing outside having my smoke, and he walked right up to me and said, 'Hey! How's it going!'" What? "And then he got closer and totally apologized saying, 'Oh! Sorry, I thought you were someone else.'" Whew. "When he got on stage and I saw he was one of the FemBots, I thought cool." Yeah, well that's where it ends honey. Heh. I'm only kidding. Well, sort of. Okay, yes, I'm kidding.

It's always a bit surreal to listen to people talk about my RRBF in that whole 'rock star' manner. But it's also funny to hear how his rock star sort of lives out in the world too, two different people: one at home, the one I live with, and the one he wants the world to see, the independent rock guy (ie, getting super-excited to see someone he knows, but knowing that he needs glasses so he probably didn't even recognize her until he was almost standing in front of her sort of thing). In the end, it was a good show and the end of a very full night, full weekend, of, ahem, culture?

IFOA On A Saturday Night

So last night, like Friday night, Zesty and I went to see an IFOA reading. There was only one author reading, but when that writer is John Irving, I suppose he's kind of a hard act to follow. Irving read from a new novel, a story about a cook and his son living in a logging camp in rural New Hampshire. The events of the chapter follow from the death of a young French Canadian lumberjack in a logjam, and extrapolate from there into the lives of the two main characters, as I said, the cook and his son.

I leaned over to Zesty and said, "[My RRBF's] father was a lumberjack, and he's French Canadian." Not seeing many similarities other than thinking that my RRBF would probably really like the book, once it's completed.

It was nice hearing something new, something fresh that Irving's working on; his poised delivery, his brilliant articulation in terms of preparing his reading, all contributed to what I'm thinking was a sort of once in a lifetime opportunity to see a sort of genius (and I do hate to use that word) at work.

Just before he read from the chapter, he introduced the new work, giving a sort of insight into his process by explaining how he thinks of 'landscape.' It's in the details, the research, the history, the background, everything that surrounds the plot, the characters. And I'm paraphrasing (of course), so forgive me if it's slightly off exactly what he said. The analogy struck me for some reason, and I'm still thinking about it this morning.

After the reading, and it was a good 40 minutes at that, he sat with a journalist and answered some of her questions. I'm not going to trash the interview here, but suffice it to say that everyone, including Zesty and myself, were complaining about her as we left the theatre. Annnywaaaay, the subject matter of the interview was about his latest published tome, Until I Find You, which again, I have at home but haven't started yet. It was well-treaded territory, Irving talking about his experiences in terms of not knowing his own father and his own very early sexual introduction. And then he finally took questions from the audience, well, 2 questions to be exact. The first was a prototypical literary "event" question; the second was a more pointed query asked to steer Irving into talking politics, which he did with humour, dignity and grace.

All in all it was a kind of surreal night, something that's so inspiring that you find it hard not to want to change your life (but in my case, I'm too damn lazy to make any substantial changes). Heh.

#54 The Lost Painting

Jonathan Harr's latest nonfiction title, The Lost Painting, is an interesting and elaborate little book about the art world's uncovering of a Caravaggio painting entitled, "The Taking of Christ". The book reads like fiction, which is probably why I got through it so quickly, and it's an engrossing story, for both those obsessed by art and those (like myself) who just like to look at pretty pictures. And that's really all I have to say about that...

Well, except maybe this: I'm a bit sad now that we didn't go to the National Gallery of Ireland when we were there this summer, now that I know that's where the painting lives. I always like to see the piece of artwork after reading about it, finding the pieces very interesting sort of bookends to the written word. It was serendipitous when the RRBF and I were in Paris two Februaries ago. I had just finished Tracy Chevalier's The Lady and the Unicorn and we actually got to see the Lady and the Unicorn tapestry at the Cluny Museum, one of my favourite museums in Paris.

Maybe it's just the idea of inspiration that intrigues me, seeing first-hand how one object inspires a writer to create a work of their own art.

IFOA On A Friday Night

Last night, Zesty and I went to see Diana Evans, Nick Laird, Helen Oyeyemi and Zadie Smith read at the International Festival of Authors. The IFOA was always one of those cultural institutions of Toronto that I've always wanted to go to, but never got around to getting tickets and/or organizing my lazy as to attend. This year, I've rectified that by getting a bunch of tickets for a few different nights, and as the readings start at 8 PM and are often over by 9.30 PM, it makes for much better entertainment then sitting in front of the television.

Annnywaaay. The four readers were presented as the best and the brightest young writers from Britain, all being thirty or younger (I guess? I could be wrong about that), but real "up and comers." With the exception of Zadie Smith, who came, arrived, flourished and now headlines. All four readings were very good, but the only book I was motivated to actually buy was Laird's, if only because I've already got 26a and On Beauty at home. His reading was very funny, that cutting Irish humour, and his writing seems fresh and lively, not unlike a drunken attraction at a party that you can't stop from happening, ending up hands all over each other in the company of people already sobering up, but you just don't care.

I stood in line to get my book signed, which I don't normally do, as I'm not much for the autographs, but wanted to see what he looked like up close, always interested in seeing the person so I can imagine them writing when I read the book. But I lost my sticky note with my name and then had to go through the normal rigmarole about how to spell it / say it, which is the bane of my existence. After three different trys, and me spelling it out like a grade-school teacher, he said, "That's a nice name." Heh.

His wife's reading was amazing, powerful, poised, and almost perfect in her delivery, and it's easy to see why Zadie Smith is the belle of the literary ball these days. All in all it was a great night, not too long, not too short, supporting the arts and all that jazz.

In fact, it's a weekend of supporting the arts: tonight it's John Irving (whee!) at the IFOA, then I'm going to Lee's Palace to see my RRBF's only Toronto stop on his whirl wind tour of Canada. And I can't wait. If you're not doing anything tonight, come out, it'll be a great show.

Hot Set!

Friends of ours are shooting a movie in our mess of a house this weekend. That means our entire downstairs, the main area of our house, has been transformed into something I wouldn't even recognize. The amount of work that goes into a film from the backend seems quite incredible, and I've never seen anything quite like it. There are so many people I don't know in my house, it's kind of an extreme feeling: like having that awesome kegger at university where half the cool kids show up, and you know nothing about them, only that they're cool and have graced your party with their presence.

They finished dressing the room on Thursday night and declared that it was now a "hot set." Which means, I guess, that no one can go in without fear of being burned. Different props were "in play" and the whole thing is a vivid use of words that I had no idea existed in that manner.

Now, it's early, and they've been here for a couple of hours already. I'm waiting for the RRBF to wake up so we can leave, because I don't want to go without him, but I don't want to be in the way either, so I'm sort of sitting in limbo typing away at my virtual world that seems far more real than what's going on downstairs for some reason.

Things You Notice When You're Too Tired

To do anything except notice things.

People search for the strangest things. I love looking through the Site Meter to see how people are getting here, the few that aren't my friends who end up here somehow, but I'm shocked at the number of people searching for information about George Stromboloupolous, and am even more shocked that they're looking for information about his height. What's up with that?

I have started having side effects from the prednisone. I'm hungry all the time and am all wired when I try to sleep. I feel like I'm covered in a layer of puff. And the crying, oh the bloody crying, for no reason and all the time. I'm half-ashamed of myself.

Well, not a very exciting post. No links. No love. Not much of anything except a girl battling with a dumb disease that she didn't ask for and doesn't much want.